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COLLECTED POEMS 



BY 

JOHN BLACK 



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XTbe iknicfterbocfter press 

NEW YORK 

1919 



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Copyright, 1919 

BY 

JOHN BLACK 
All rights reserved 



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JAN -2 1320 



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CONTENTS 



PAGE 



Biographical Note .... 


3 


Story of a Mother^s Love . 


9 


SONNETS 




Disappointment .... 


19 


To I. L. at Parting .... 


20 


Absence ...... 


21 


Parting ...... 


22 


Greece ...... 


25 



MISCELLANEOUS 



Meditation 

Queen Alexandra's Wish 

The Jubilee Singers . 

To my Mother 

To a Picture 



29 
30 
31 
32 
33 



m 



PAGE 

Upon a Scrap of Hotel Note-Paper -34 

Thoughts 35 

John 36 

Suggested by the Picture of SamuePs Flight . 37 

The Criterion 38 

Greatness ....... 39 



IV 



COLLECTED POEMS 



BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 

This little book represents the poetical achievement 
of a brave and faultless life; and, confident that such 
would have been my father*s wish had he lived himself 
to superintend the publication of the volume, I dedicate 
it to the one who, more than any other, contributed 
happiness to his life — my mother. 

My father was born in Bona, Invernessshire, Scotland, 
on December 25, 1852. He early manifested a taste for 
Uterature and was, in youth, a fervent admirer of George 
Eliot. He was the son of Archibald Black, a sea captain, 
and Janet Eraser Black. Captain Black, who was well 
known in marine circles along the Scottish coast, v/as a 
brilliant Gaelic scholar and a keen judge of literature. 
It was from his father, apparently, that the poet inherited 
his love of books, while his mother was a great and good 
influence on his life. 

The poet attended various schools in Scotland. In 
1880 he decided to go in for medicine. He went to Edin- 
burgh and studied medicine at the University for four 
years. The strain, however, reacted on his sight, and he 
abandoned all hope of becoming a physician when, in 

3 



i884) he was compelled to put himself tmder the care 
of specialists in London. His vision was seriously en- 
dangered for a year. 

Upon his recovery, in 1885, he returned to Scotland. 
He then followed his father's example and became 
connected with a steamship company. He gave this up 
later, and, after several successful ventures in the hotel 
business in Inverness, he built the Palace Hotel there. 
This hostelry still stands, a noble structure, on the banks 
of the Ness. It is, even in these days of rapid construc- 
tural development, a fine building. At the time of its 
completion, it was one of the important hotels in that 
part of Scotland. 

Inverness was then, as now, a Mecca for tourists, and 
the Palace Hotel was the scene of many a brilliant 
assemblage. 

In 1887, just a few years prior to the opening of the 
Palace Hotel, the poet married Miss Marjorie Robb, 
daughter of Mrs. Donald Robb, of Conon Bridge, Ross- 
shire. It was about 1889 that he wrote his best poem, 
"The Story of a Mother's Love." As his first child, 
Archibald, was then only a few months old, it might be 
easy to trace the origin of the poet's inspiration. In the 
Palace Hotel, my father passed several very happy years. 

A business transaction in 1893 or '94 was the beginning 
of a series of misfortunes that continued, almost without 
interruption, until but a few years before the poet's death. 

As suddenly as his troubles came on, my father's 

4 



writing ceased. His verses up to that time he had been 
sending to various newspapers and magazines in Scot- 
land. Many of these were published without any sig- 
nature. Others appeared over my mother's initials, 
" M. R. " The poet was very modest about his work and 
reluctant to take credit for any of his achievements. 
That he placed his own initials to the poem, "The Story 
of a Mother's Love** may, in some measure, indicate 
how he felt toward this work. 

In 1901 my father sailed from Glasgow for New York. 
His heart had been wrung by his failures in business in 
his native land and he resolved to make a home for his 
family in the United States. The first four years of his 
life in this country was a period of intense suffering and 
additional misfortune. Forced to accept work cruelly 
unworthy of his talents, he aged in those years as though 
they had been many times their number. 

He was rejoined by his family in June, 1906, and the 
happiness of the reunion did much to prolong his life. 
Surrounded by his wife and children in these after years, 
he enjoyed a real serenity. He did not, however, do any 
more writing; suffering had too permanently affected 
him to permit of any such relaxation even in these gentler 
days. 

His physical decline grew more serious in the summer 
of 19 10 and he spent a few weeks in the hospital. He was 
brought home in September of that year. A series of 
rallies and relapses followed, until on the evening of 

5 



Friday, October 7, 191 0, in an apartment in New York 
City, the end came. His passing was kindly and peaceful, 
death being to him the conclusion of a struggle that had 
tired him out. He was buried in Woodlawn Cemetery, 
New York. 

John Black, 2d. 
Brooklyn, N. Y. 



THE STORY OF A MOTHER'S LOVE. 



THE STORY OF A MOTHER»S LOVE 

**CAN A MOTHER E'ER FORGET HER SUCKING CHILD ?•» 

O, great and blessed gift! — maternal love! 

There*s nought else here so full of sacrifice 

And sacred trust. A mother's love begins 

With childhood's earliest dawn, and gathers strength 

Through all the changes of succeeding years. 

A joy, subdued, possesses her, when first 

Her boy goes out to school; but then she fears 

Contamination to the pure young mind. 

These fears increase when, later, he must go 

Far from the ties and influence of home, 

Manhood's stem duties bravely to fulfill. 

The mother's heart goes out to this first-born 

With many a secret prayer that he may prove 

Worthy, throughout life's thorny pilgrimage. 

And when vice first has left its slimy trace 

On the young brow, what agony compels 

Her yearning heart to sorrow, yet to hope 

Her heart-wrung prayers may save him. And she seeks 

Continually the mercy-seat to implore 

Pardon and guidance. So her love remains 

9 



Sacred amid the pestilential fumes 
Of deepest degradation and despair. 

There was a tender mother, once, who dwelt 

By sweet Lochaline's softly wooded shore 

In classic Morven. With her infant son 

She clomb the hills on sunny afternoons 

To gaze, from grassy top, with wistful eye. 

Westward, to where a sail might, then, perchance 

Be passing Rhu-na-gael, or, farther off. 

Gleam 'round Ardnamurchan. For he sailed. 

The husband of her choice, in his small craft 

On short sea voyages to neighboring isles. 

His manly form and honest, kindly face 

Meeting with warmest welcome, everjrwhere. 

From tiniest bays of Mull to distant coasts 

Of the outer Hebrides — dark, misty lands. 

Where shores exposed to the aggressive sweep 

Of the Atlantic ; and no husband thought 

With fonder recollection of his home, 

Forever picturing his wife and son 

On Morven*s sunny slope, at eventide, 

Or clasped, in close embrace, through the long night. 

To waken early, whispering his name. 

Sometimes he came to spend a week at home, 
And, for the time, forget his nights at sea. 
With heart oblivious of all else but love. 

10 



One cold Spring day, when he had just returned 
From one of these short visits, his young wife 
Resolved to bring her child with her and cross 
The hill toward Loch Sunart, where her friends 
Had always dwelt, and now expected her. 
Already had the softly falling snow 
Made the path dubious; but with courage high, 
And certain long-taught knowledge of the way, 
She nerved her for the task, and so pursued 
Her solitary course. The wind had risen 
And fiercely blew across her dreary path; 
So she clung closer to her babe and pressed 
The small face to her bosom and she prayed 
For help and guidance. But no step approached, 
Nor sound, save of the tempest, smote her ear 
As she pursued her journey up the hill. 
O, awful silence! *mid the swathing snow! 
O, crushing agony of solitude ! 
Where art thou, now, husband and father both? 
Doth nothing pierce thy soul at this dire hour 
Of dread, lest those who always fill thine heart 
Might be in peril? 

As before there moved 
Her son, with Hagar, in the wilderness; 
So this fond mother ran with eager gaze, 
As if to ward off all bewilderment. 
Courage must not forsake her at this hour. 
She sought again the footpath ; on she went 

II 



Stumbling continually. At last she sat, 
The blinding snow rendering impossible 
All further progress ; and a sheltering rock 
Inviting her to temporary rest, 
She fed her babe with the last drop of milk 
She had provided. Soon the weary child 
And still more wearied mother, fell asleep. 

It was but transient on the mother's part. 

Shivering, she woke, and shuddered as her eyes 

Opened on that vast wilderness of snow. 

Night was approaching, and with maddened brain 

She rose, rebellious, crying upon God 

To save her child. Then as her mind awoke 

To fuller understanding, there she knelt 

And from the depths of her lone soul, she prayed. 

The night had passed, and friends began to fear 
She might have lost her way, and so resolved 
To search and bring some nourishment. Perchance 
The snow had caused the wanderers to remain 
In shelter for the night. They searched the path 
Across the snow-clad hill, with anxious hearts 
And minds alternating *twixt hope and fear. 
At last they found the mother, lifeless, robed 
In one thin outer garment, all else gone, 
With face that peaceful looked, as if kind death 
Had first assured her that her child would live. 

12 



A little farther, in the shelter, lay 
Smiling in sleep, and missing nought, the child 
Clad warmly in the loving mother's dress. 
All save the covering she had made her shroud. 
• • • t • • • 

From Morven came the great race of MacLeods, 
Great in physique, in heart, in intellect; 
These gifts all culminated in the man, 
Norman (the chosen chaplain of our queen). 
Reckoned the foremost preacher of his time. 
He left an honored name that will go down 
To latest generations. 

Once he meant 
To preach from some well-pondered text, but still 
Another came between him and his choice. 
With pressing importunity. He thought 
And hesitated, as the time approached 
When he must meet his hearers, for this text 
Would still persist to thrust itself before 
Aught else, and " Can a mother e*er forget 
Her sucking child?" came with overmastering force. 
From this he preached, and thrilled the multitude 
With heart-subduing pathos, as he told 
This simple story of a mother's love 
In far-off Morven. 

In the crowded church 
An old man who had entered late (to escape 
The coming shower) seemed moved with the tale, 

13 



And wept in silence. Those around him looked 
With pitying eyes, wondering what chord was touched 
To this heart-melting issue. While he strove 
To still his anguished soul, the tempest raged 
With fiercer violence, as 'twere to aid 
Concealment of his suffering. He rose 
And hurried from the church, as if pursued 
By his tormentors. 

Later on that night 
An urgent message to the preacher came, 
To see a dying man. When he arrived 
The man was overcome, and as he gazed 
He sobbed aloud. The preacher quietly knelt 
With quick compassion, saying " Let us pray." 
At length the patient raised his eyes and said: 
" The child of whom you spoke today was I. 
That was my mother who so bravely died 
That I might live. My father also died 
(The neighbors told me) of a broken heart 
Soon after her; and I was left to friends. 
Who certainly were kind. I swear to this 
Before you and my God. But as I grew 
A spirit of unrest took hold of me, 
And urged me to take flight. 

" I wandered far, 
As did * the younger son.* You see I know 
Something of Scripture. I have with me here 
The Bible where my father wrote my name. 

14 



In all my miserable wanderings 

I still preserved this Bible, and would look 

Into its pages sometimes. Yet I felt 

Alone at times, as in a wilderness. 

All the affection of the world seemed lost 

And ended in my mother*s sacrifice. 

The wreck I am has been the work of years 

Of fearful living, without hope or God, 

Or dread of a hereafter. Now the end 

So near approaches. Is it not too late 

To ask for pardon?" 

Here the preacher stopped 
Albeit with gentleness, the sufferer's speech. 
Touching with gentle lovingness, the chord 
That had already thrilled in quick response, 
He whispered softly of that mightier love 
Waiting to shield the supplicant. He spoke 
With tenderest pathos, of the sacrifice 
For sinners on that " green hill far away," 
Until the weary patient's eye began 
To glow, as if the faintest ray of hope 
Now lightened the dark soul. 

Day after day, 
The worn man languished in his suffering, 
And, as in his first childhood's helplessness, 
He was surrounded by a mother's love, 
So now, " God's children " came to comfort him, 
And kind hands tended to his wants. But yet, 

15 



He looked with cheerful gratitude on none 

As on the pastor who had touched his heart 

To penitence and hope. Last day he came, 

The poor man could not speak (but there were signs 

Of peaceful resignation). Ere he left 

The weary wanderer returned to God. 



i6 



SONNETS 



17 



DISAPPOINTMENT 

I did not see thee, and my soul was sad; 

I looked for thee as flowers look for the sun, 

Awaiting patiently till night hath run 

Its dreary course, and in the sunshine glad 

They ope their tender bosoms. I have had 

A blissful period of expectancy, 

Believing that in answer to the cry 

For the Divine within me had been made 

Thy friendship : now a dark and harrowing fear 

Hath seized me, since so far removed from thee 

And all thy joys, my sphere, henceforth shall be 

No hopeful tone my drooping heart to cheer; 

Denied the bright soul glances of thine eye ; 

Thy soft voice never whispering sympathy. 



19 



TO I. L. AT PARTING 

(OCT. I St, 1876) 

Heaven's light illume thy path, thou gentle friend, 

And fortune bless thee with a constant smile ; 

May summer's friendships never thee beguile, 

Nor disappointment, care, nor sorrow lend 

One shadow to thy path. All joy attend 

Thee through this pilgrimage, and though we part, 

Enshrined within this solitary heart. 

Sacred shalt thou remain unto the end 

Of my existence. I may not again 

Behold thee as I now do, and may feel 

The chill of disappointment o*er me steal. 

When, lonely, I shall look for thee in vain. 

Unchanged by time or absence, I shall be 

The same in spirit constantly with thee. 



ao 



ABSENCE 

Thy spirit fills the silence, tho* thou*rt gone, 
I feel as if thine eyes beheld me now 
Deep gazing into mine, although no tone 
Betray thee smiling near me, and allow 
Glad converse with thee . My kind friend, I bow 
With reverence to the gentle influence stealing 
O'er my worn senses, pleasantly revealing 
Thy taste in everything around, and vow. 
That as these speak of thee in absence, I 
Will thus remember thee, though I depart 
Far from thee : for a voice within my heart 
Shall whisper thy loved name as tenderly 
As erewhile, and around it fondly strew 
All the green laurel wreaths that ever grew. 



21 



PARTING 

Look once again, oh, turn not yet away 

Thine eyes, although their gaze be dimmed with tears 

That through the sad and solitary years 

Of thy long absence in my soul I may 

Still see that look, and passionately pray 

To Heaven, while deepest yearnings inly burn 

Imploring Him to hasten thy return. 

Who this poor, bleeding heart alone can stay. 

Thus with thine arms around me I could die. 

Breathing thy loved name with my parting breath, 

Gathering a death-strength from thy tender eye — 

Oh, it were better than a living death 

Apart from thee, through weary years that roll 

Still deeper floods of anguish o'er my soul! 



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'^^ 






OR£/£)C£ 

(Of this poem the poet wrote: " I didn't know Eric McKay had 
written sonnets on the Greco-Russian war, but I fancy I must be in 
sjrmpathy with him. I know little of politics but I felt keenly for 
poor Greece. You will see how I fell back on others to keep my own 
poor lines afloat. The first line is Wordsworth's while the other 
quotations in the last four lines are from * The Spanish Gipsy.' ") 

*' Milton! Thou should^st be living at this hour!*' 

With Grecian fire to set the world aflame, 

Or hapless Bjrron, to surround the name 

Of Greece anew with glamour ; or the power 

Of Wordsworth, with " fine frenzy ** to endower 

The time with pity, patriotism, and will 

To conquer tyranny, and instill 

Into all hearts one great resolve to lower 

This savage despotism. Liberty ! 

Where are the " powers, *' now, that claimed to seek 

Thy sacredness? " For strong souls to be weak " 

There was a " choice " ; but everything that makes 

All nature great has sunk, and now we see 

Those boastful " powers " " crawl like hissing snakes! " 



35 



MISCELLANEOUS 



27 



MEDITATION 

Mayhap the moonlight's mellow ray 
Falls sweet upon the lovely track, 
Gilding with radiant beam the way, 
And naught can lure thy footsteps back. 
Abanas* silvery water glide 
Meandering thro' the verdant plains, 
Kissing the flowerlets at thy side 
And waking soft, melodious strains. 



»9 



QUEEN ALEXANDRA'S WISH 

In maidenhood when questioned as 
To where my fancy's wishes roved, 

What my heart's chief ambition was, 
I answered simply: " To be loved." 

As Princess of the Peerless Realm 
When surging throngs around me moved 

With shouts my fears to overwhelm 
I deemed it glorious " to be loved." 

And thro' the years of wedded bliss. 
Among my children as behooved, 

I felt no joy could equal this: 

By my own offspring '* to be loved." 

A husband's life in peril, past, 
A mother's grief, my people proved 

These touched the nation's heart, so vast. 
And I felt grateful " to be loved." 

When the good mother Queen resigned 
Her earthly scepter, and it moved 

The world to sorrow, I divined 
How great a thing 'tis " to be loved." 

30 



THE JUBILEE SINGERS 

Weird, wailing voices from the prairie plains, 
Plaintive and mournful as the wandering wind, 
Ye seem to whisper of sad memories, 
Of tyranny that, erstwhile, long had ruled 
The toilers of the earth. 



31 



TO MY MOTHER 

Your eyes remain with me, and your soft voice. 
No other eyes nor voice have been the same 
To me, nor can be. I remember them 
In one first sorrow. What a look of grief 
Your face had, when, with eyes adim with tears, 
" Wet as Cordelia^s ** and in faltering tones 
You told us that our father's friend was dead ! 
That sad, impressive scene arises now 
In painful vividness before my mind, 
The nimble fingers folding the black crepe, 
The anxious gaze, as of a mother bird 
Towards her fledglings in their little nest. 
O ! eyes so full of love's divinest light 
Grief-stricken, then, O ! tremulous, soft voice 
Prophetic of the harder years to come 
With sadder partings ! 



33 



TO A PICTURE, ROYAL HOTEL, DUNDEE, WHILE 
WAITING FOR MR. FISHER 

Young heart, that, tempest-tossed, 'twixt hope and fear, 

Outspeaking, thro' the hesitating eye. 

Do pangs of parting first begin in thee? 

Thy mother erstwhile smiling; as I gaze 

The artist's meaning thrills and masters me. 

Hope springs exultant in thy brave young soul. 

But, broken-winged, descends again to earth 

In filial piety. Tis sad to part! 

Thy mother's arms encircle thy young form. 

While thoughts unutterable rend her heart. 

Anticipating that it shall be years 

Ere thy return. 



33 



UPON A SCRAP OF HOTEL NOTE-PAPER 

For men and women (both) with wearied souls 
There is at least one requiem in the stores 
Garnered from hearts and minds that long ago 
Have sunk in triumph (or oblivion) 
And yet revive again as genius must. 



34 



THOUGHTS 

I know not what it is that urges me 

To write, unless that terrible despair, 

The depths from which our heart-wrung tears are stirred 

To utterance. And lay my suffering bare 

To alien S3rmpathy. O ! that I were 

Endowed with gift of poet to express 

What burns within me ! 



35 



JOHN 

John, mine own namesake, with the golden hair, 
O, be thy path less perilous than mine, 
Heaven fill the coming years with grace divine. 
Nor burden thy young life with grief or care ! 



36 



SUGGESTED BY THE PICTURE OF SAMUEL'S 
FLIGHT FROM DAMASCUS 

Lone voyager, the rage of foes 
Hath trespassed on thy quiet home, 

And direst persecution's throes 
Have urged thee thus afar to roam. 

What sorrows fill thine anguished heart! 

How painful, now, life's changeful scene! 
From home and friendships thou must part, 

A follower of the Nazarene ! 



37 



THE CRITERION 

Whenever I detect vanity or jealousy in a great writer 
I feel truly sorry; for, in my estimate of gifts, the posses- 
sion of a ready divination of greatness in another seems 
an additional claim to greatness in the possessor himself. 



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GREATNESS 

There is a greater man than the great man — the man 
who is too great to be great. 



39 



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